Branded Like Sheep
by pas une pipe
Summary: Some say that Ravenclaw curiosity can really get a girl into trouble. Tom Riddle knows what Claire is up to, and isn't afraid to use it against her. Little by little, she finds herself playing into his hands, for when the Devil pulls the strings, there's no beating him at his own game.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **J. K. Rowling rules over the Harry Potter universe with an iron quill.

**Review response:** Thank you for the support. For chapter one, I carried through with some of the corrections a few of you made. However, Claire has a wand core from a different phoenix. Not Fawkes.

**Thanks for beta reading the first chapter:** Leylinjan.

* * *

"Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit,  
His waxen wings did mount above his reach,  
And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow."

- Christopher Marlowe

* * *

Prefects were _supposed_ to be role models for the other students. Every year, only two were chosen from each House; such an honor demanded good judgment in return. Sighing, Claire looked out of the window into the night. Maybe she wasn't cut out for it. The last few months had shown her that. She had crept around the castle before fifth year, but now she was breaching the trust of her superiors to a much greater degree.

Shame washed over her as she slid the dusty old book back onto the shelf. "Godelot," she whispered, "you were killed by your own son... Do you love him still?"

Claire examined her form one last time. It wouldn't do to get caught because of a faulty Disillusionment Charm. That would be humiliating! If there was going to be any punishment at all, it would be her _own_ doing. With that done, she headed out unusually fast, only to pause at the entrance. Shivering, she glanced back at the restricted section. Maybe the books were toying with her brain, just like the man who wrote that horrible book. It was almost like she was being watched.

* * *

"Excellent work as always!" Horace Slughorn exclaimed, peering over the young man's shoulder as he finished the Polyjuice Potion with a ceremonious little wave of his wand. "Ten points to Slytherin! I do hope to see you tomorrow evening, there's someone from the Ministry I want you to meet."

"Of course, sir," Tom replied, meeting the Potions master's eyes, and flashing a smile laced with just the right amount of flattery. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." His smile widened slightly. Very few people could understand the implications of what he said.

Flasks and jars lined the shelves above his work table. Most were filled with either potions or ingredients. He reached for an empty vial next to a jar of bobbing crocodile hearts, taking note of where his own were. Assisting Slughorn wasn't a complete waste of time, even if it was work fit for a house-elf. No one could deny that his professor was well-connected.

"Don't worry yourself with that, my dear boy! I'll take care of it. Off to bed!"

Tom's hand twitched. The half-wit was making tonight difficult. Polyjuice Potion had its uses. Obtaining the necessary ingredients was feasible, but brewing a large quantity was very time-consuming. "Are you sure—?" Slughorn just patted his shoulder and bustled off, humming under his breath. He waited almost a minute until he ladled a modest amount into a few vials, not entirely pleased with the few fruits of his labor, wishing he could take more of it. Frowning, he secured them in his leather bag, and stalked off to the library.

* * *

Hogwarts teachers had an uncanny ability to instill frenzy in students as the Christmas holiday approached. Tension grew with each passing day, reflected in the feverish scratching of quills against parchment. Fifth and seventh years took the heaviest blows. O.W.L.'s and N.E.W.T.'s loomed ahead, yet all but the most dedicated students could bear to study as the last days dwindled away. Before long, professors realized it would be futile to even try to reign in a class of jumbled nerves, so they stepped away and joined their students in holiday cheer.

Mother Nature was not cooperating for those who wanted out of the castle. The grounds were covered in a thick blanket of snow, and it wasn't done falling, judging by the overcast skies. Some braved the frigid temperatures, but most found something to entertain them inside, which was hardly an ordeal. Festoons of holly and mistletoe, candles, garlands, and fairies graced the castle's halls, and the frozen Black Lake glowed with the moon's silver rays at night.

Twelve great Christmas trees towered beneath the hazy ceiling in the Great Hall, flecked with enchanted snow. Claire's lips curved up into a small smile as she walked in, gazing up at the ceiling. It still managed to fascinate her, even though she should've been used to it by now. It was tempting to stick her tongue out and try to catch the snowflakes, but the spell's effects dissipated several meters above the House tables.

She purposely walked between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, trying to catch her friend David's eye. The cheerful Hufflepuff was sitting with a few other boys from their year, undoubtedly talking about Quidditch again. She winced. It was baffling to her why so many people enjoyed whacking each other with balls so far off the ground. Maybe it had to do with a broken femur in her first year. Needless to say, it was one of many conversational barriers she had with her father.

David gave her a quick wink, only to launch back into discussion. _Face it, Goldstein_, she thought. The Chudley Cannons were pathetic. That much she did know.

She made her way over to a mop of curly auburn hair. That mop was her housemate Laura, who was scarfing down potatoes and roasted chicken.

"Hey," Laura said through her dinner.

"Hi," she said back, reaching for the mashed potatoes. "How'd you guys manage in the greenhouses? Prefect duties made me want to gouge my eyes out. It's a little hard to blame them though." She set the serving spoon back in the bowl. "I even threatened to dock points from Ravenclaw."

"Right. So we can lose to Slytherin again." Laura glared at her, although anyone close to the girl would know she didn't mean much by it. "It went fine. David has to go over that with us after break. You know, with your 'oh-so-horrible' _E_."

"Why did you remind me?" she sighed, massaging her temples. "I'm going to be stuck there for two weeks. It's not that I don't want to see my parents, but with Career Advice all I'm going to hear is how I should aim to be something like an Auror. Can you really see me doing something like that?"

"You'd save yourself first," Laura agreed, grinning. Claire managed a weak smile. The rowdy first and second years had given her a splitting headache.

It began to lessen once she got food into her stomach. Setting her fork down, she looked over at the table dressed in green. Slytherin wasn't entirely deserving of its reputation, but there was quite some truth to it. Unlike many Gryffindors, they tended be more cautious in their trouble making.

"Fancy Riddle?"

"Hmm?"

"You heard me."

"Of course I don't," Claire retorted, realizing she had been looking at his side of the table. "I'm just annoyed. I heard Slughorn's gatherings are silly, but Riddle's invited every year. Even if he is a sixth year, we're both Prefects and at the top of our class—"

"Jealous, you mean?"

There was no way to dance around that. The answer was yes, and a rather sudden realization, which caught her by surprise. "Shut up," she muttered.

* * *

Monday, 20 December, 1943

**ARIELLA PRYCE FOUND DEAD**

_The Ministry was in a frenzy late last night. Ariella Pryce, celebrated Head of the Auror Office, was found dead several kilometers outside of Nurmengard, alongside four subordinates and nine Muggles. Investigators have confirmed widespread suspicions: these murders are just a few more of the thousands that can be attributed to Gellert Grindelwald and his followers. Their aim is to unite the Ministries of Magic, and rule over the magical and non-magical alike. They say it is "for the greater good," but when will this reign of terror end?_

_"It is not our desire to seem insensitive," said Elphinstone Urquart of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "We offer our sincerest condolences to the families of the victims, but the situation has gotten worse than we feared. It is imperative that we stand our ground. We've lost some of our best Aurors!" _

_After a brief mourning period, Cadmus Lawrence was immediately chosen to fill Mrs. Pryce's former position. "Ariella will be sorely missed," he told journalists earlier this morning. "We have a lot to face, but we'll pull through if we work together."_

* * *

"I can't believe he didn't say anything," Claire said, puzzled by the note in her hand.

_Claire,_

_Meet me in the Entrance Hall at 19:30. I received clearance from the Headmaster to attend Horace Slughorn's gathering this evening.  
_

_Remember to wear your dress robes,_

_Cadmus Lawrence_

"Are you still surprised that he signs his name on letters to his own daughter? Maybe I know your dad better than you do," David teased. He tapped her teacup with his wand to heat it up. "You stayed up late again. Drink your tea."

"Ariella Pryce was _murdered_," she snapped. "He sends an invitation to a _party_, and doesn't think of mentioning something about landing one of the most dangerous jobs at the Ministry—"

"I'm sure he has his reasons, Claire, and I'll be there with you." The look on his face was sympathetic. "Think about all the years we've known each other. Has he ever been any different...? No, don't say anything. You know I'm right. He may be frustrating, but he cares for you...in his own way."

"Why must you be right?" she lamented, taking a sip of her tea. It was bitter. Tea wasn't supposed to steep for so long.

"Oh, you've given your fair share of advice. It's just different when you're on the receiving end," he said sheepishly, ducking behind her. Professor Kelman was looking right at them, shaking his head slightly. The ancient Head of Ravenclaw House was a wonderful Arithmancy teacher, but he could be a real stickler for the rules, even so close to Christmas break. He looked like an eagle with his hooked nose. "Would you mind heading out? Kelman looks ready to go badger hunting."

She followed him out to the Entrance Hall, her smile fading as she glanced at the hourglasses above. Slytherin was two dozen points ahead of Ravenclaw, a cruel reminder of the realization she had last night. Damn.

* * *

Her father's gray eyes stared back at her in the mirror, brought out by dark blue dress robes. Everyone seemed to say she resembled him more than her mother. She just didn't see it. The silver mirror had belonged to her grandmother. She traced the flowery pattern on its silver casing, only to be broken out of her reverie by the sound of heavy boots against the stone floor. 19:30, right on the dot.

"Good evening, Mr. Goldstein," Cadmus greeted him, shaking the Hufflepuff's hand. "I don't mean to be so abrupt... Would you mind meeting us downstairs?"

"Yes, sir," he said automatically, giving her an encouraging smile as he started toward the dungeons. Her father waited until his footsteps were no longer within earshot, and darted into conversation before an awkward silence could settle in to suffocate them both.

"I know you're not pleased with me right now. Neither is your mother." He paused. "And I'm sorry for that, but surely you know the magnitude of what happened last night?"

She swallowed what she was going to say. It was then that she really noticed his graying brown hair, and lines around his tired eyes. "Yes," Claire whispered. "I'm just worried that something terrible will happen to you."

"I know, sweetheart." They were in the dungeons now. Torches lit the way, less eerie than usual. "The Ministry has suffered a great loss over the last few years. The Auror Office was stretched thin even before last night." She glanced at him, already anticipating what he was going to say.

"We mustn't let what happened completely dampen our spirits. That's as important as a wand." They stopped in front of what seemed to be a tent made of emerald and gold hangings. Laughter and music emanated from the other room. "Besides, this is more work than play. Horace Slugorn has connections that I don't have in the Ministry, and has access to Hogwarts's best and brightest—"

"So you want to _raise_ future Ministry workers?" Claire asked, frowning.

"I wouldn't phrase it quite like that, but yes. A year ago it would have turned my stomach to bring you here tonight, but the events of the past year have changed my perspective... He and I came to a recent agreement, despite our rocky past—"

"Is that why—?"

"Oh, yes," he said cheerfully. "He's been a bit afraid of me since our school days together. I didn't want my daughter..._collected. _I wanted you to get by on your own merit."

"You always act like I'm not good enough!" Mentally cursing herself, she refused to look away.

"Of course not. You're more than good enough," he told her, smiling, and drawing the silk drapes aside. "You're just not ambitious enough."

* * *

Claire hadn't expected so many people. The room was by no means small, but it was filled to the brim with students, professors, Ministry workers, and other guests. Fire crackled in a large stone fireplace, the centerpiece of the room, and bathed chattering guests in a warm glow. It was obviously designed to encourage mingling. Still, most seemed glued to their own age group, huddling together and discussing plans for Christmas hols.

No one seemed eager to mention Ariella Pryce.

Her pulse quickened. It was silly to be so timid. _Isn't this what you wanted in the first place? _she chastised herself, creeping to a quiet corner by the buffet table. She wasn't that socially inept. What was with the fret and worry? Self-deceit was like trying to cheat at a game of solitaire. She was fearful of disappointing her family. Everything she did—long nights in the library, Prefect duties, excellent grades—was for their approval.

That wasn't ambition; it was groveling, and her motivations could very well set her up for failure. How easy it was to wallow in self-pity! It wasn't the first time she had such thoughts.

A light tug on her dress pulled her out of her daze.

"Pumpkin juice, miss?" a house-elf squeaked, looking up at her with huge green eyes. They were batty creatures, and she couldn't help but mentally cringe at the thought of them handling her food, even though the school's food was delicious. At least the rag it wore was clean. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Yes, thank you," she said, a little brusque. She reached for a goblet and downed it in seconds, but still couldn't shake the dry feeling in her mouth.

_Aguamenti. _That was better.

"Curious creatures, aren't they?"

Albus Dumbledore was standing by the desserts, helping himself to some treacle tart. His robes were bright blue and speckled with stars, but not as blue as his twinkling eyes.

"House-elves cannot help their nature," he told her gently. "They're quite like children. I know you have no malice toward them, but try to remember that."

A little embarrassed, she nodded in agreement. House-elf or not, she'd been a bit rude, and her inner turmoil was no excuse.

"What is troubling you?"

"I can't seem to take my own advice," she admitted, eyes focused on a group across the room. Her dad was talking animatedly with Slughorn and a few Ministry workers. After her grandmother had died in early December, she sought guidance from her friendly Transfiguration teacher. She respected his magical prowess and insight.

"The nestling must stretch its wings or remain forever bound to the tree."

Claire smiled at him, taking the hint, and walked a few steps in David's direction. Her friend knew when to leave her alone, and she appreciated that, but now she wanted to talk to him.

"Thank you, professor."

Dumbledore beamed back at her.

"Over here, Miss Lawrence!" Slughorn said brightly, guiding her to a group assembled by the fireplace. Claire frowned at the man's hand on her arm. He wasn't an unkind person, but she didn't like his sudden, overtly friendly manner. She looked back, giving David an apologetic look.

"This is your daughter, isn't it, Cadmus?" said a middle-aged man to her right. She recognized him. His last name was Willhelm, from what she could remember. Many people from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement ended up at her home at some point. There were other students and Ministry workers in the lot, including Abraxas Malfoy and Tom Riddle.

Her father gave them a brief run-though of what they were to expect. Interns that participated in training were not obligated to work at the Ministry in the future, and _none_ of them would engage in combat while they attended Hogwarts. Auror training usually lasted about three years after graduation, but the traditional route wouldn't be enough, given the state of the Auror Office. Training would commence shortly after Christmas, and continue on weekends when school was in session.

"Isn't she a bit too young?" Willhelm asked, looking at Claire. "Are you sure she can handle it, Cadmus?"

Indignation burned in the pit of her stomach. She glowered at him, reaching for her wand. "Alder, thirteen inches, phoenix feather core...and unyielding," Ollivander had said.

_No, I'm not, you twit. Expecto Patronum!_

Silver light shot out of the end of her wand. He ducked, barely evading the spell as it flew over his balding head. It was a magpie, a mischievous one at that. The bird landed on his shoulder to preen itself.

His eyebrows went straight to his hairline. "A nonverbal Patronus in your fifth year?" he whistled.

"I won't be in harm's way," she ground out. "If I can keep up with the spellwork, my age is irrelevant."

Willhelm chucked. "You're your father's daughter after all."

* * *

Her trunk landed with a gentle thud on the compartment floor. Sighing, she rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window. It was nice to enjoy the solitude. Most of the students hadn't boarded yet, still wrestling with their belongings in the wind and rain.

Suddenly, her eyes snapped open. She whirled around, only to see an all-too-familiar face.

It was Tom Riddle.

"I look forward to our time together, Miss Lawrence," he said, dark eyes glinting. "It should be a great learning opportunity."

* * *

Tinworth was a quaint wizarding community northeast of Lizard Point. A few dozen cottages lined the main street, but several were strewn across the village's outskirts, closer to the ocean. Several from Bridget Wenlock's time still stood, attracting Arithmancers from all over the United Kingdom. Cornwall winters were milder than those in Scotland, but the cold air was like icy fire in her lungs.

"Wait up!"

Claire stumbled mid-stride, knees breaking her fall in the rough sand. Of course she couldn't catch up. David was on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and had gleefully reminded her that not all of her training would be wandwork and bookwork. He did have a point. Stamina was very important, and she probably wouldn't get an opportunity to beat a Dark Wizard to death with a book.

Sighing, she brushed her trousers off. It would take a while to get used to Muggle boy clothes, but they really were more practical for training. Tomorrow there would be a tour of the Auror Headquarters, even though training would be at Hogwarts when school was in session.

It would do her good to be more cautious. The Head Auror's daughter delving into Dark material...now, that would make an interesting story. The irony was hard to appreciate when her family's reputation could burst into flames if she was caught by the wrong person.

Enchanted lamps illuminated Wenlock Way, shadows dancing on the stone walls and cobbled street. She would miss the smell of the sea, and waking up in her own bed. After all, there were only a few days left of Christmas break. Her stomach growled when she finally closed the front door behind her. An upstairs window went dark. Her mother was going to bed alone, again.

* * *

_Magic is might...  
_

A house-elf, goblin, and centaur looked up adoringly at the witch and wizard. She snorted in amusement. The Fountain of Magical Brethren wasn't very realistic. House-elves lived to serve, but goblins and centaurs? Certainly not. Maybe they should've put a Muggle in there. Most of the Ministry was dedicated to concealing their world. That was understandable...to a point. The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was enacted for a reason, but if only more effort could be put into—

"The Department of Mysteries intrigues me also."

Tom stood next to her, gazing at the fountain with an unreadable expression. He'd sneaked up on her, although the Atrium was full of Ministry workers anxious to go home, a sea of reflections on the highly polished floor.

"Pardon?"

"You seemed interested when we passed the Unspeakables earlier this afternoon."

That was true. "It's hard not to be curious. There are rumors, but we can't be sure..."

"Then I believe we have some common objectives."

"And what would they be?"

"Testing the limits of magic," he said softly. "Some of which may be forbidden."

She really didn't like the accusing look on his face.

"I must say that I was a little surprised by your skill level. Those long nights in the library must be working."

Chills ran down her spine.

"I look forward to working together." Those words sounded familiar.

It wasn't like she had much of a choice in the matter. Nodding stiffly, she hurried to the fireplaces on the right side of the Atrium, anxious to Floo home.

* * *

Nonverbal spells required intent and self-discipline. Constant practice had been tedious work the year before, but it had also improved her focus on verbal spells.

But now she was getting frustrated.

_"Crucio!"_

A faint beam of red light struck the mouse in front of her. It didn't make a sound.

Why wasn't it working? Did she even want it to work?

She leaned back against the wall, sick to her stomach. Riddle hadn't approached her since classes resumed. What did he _think_ she knew? An interest in the Dark Arts was one thing, but the Unforgivables were in a class of their own. She hadn't dared to try them until now.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Over the last few months, I've been dealing with some health problems. I'll update when I'm able to do so.

* * *

Tom Riddle was used to getting his way; he had a mask for every occasion. Those who witnessed flashes of his true nature wouldn't dare to reveal his secrets. _Obliviate_ was always an option, but sifting through people's minds often yielded far more entertaining ways of ensuring their loyalty. There was, however, a stubborn thorn in his side. Albus Dumbledore was a nuisance he would have to endure for another year.

Amusement curved his lips into a smirk. Lord Voldemort, soon to be the greatest wizard who had ever lived, in an Auror program! Although his ministerial ambitions resided in others, familiarity with the enemy's repertoire could only benefit him. Countless generations had foolishly shunned the Dark Arts, at the cost of knowing what they were up against. Their loss would be his gain.

A soft purring interrupted his thoughts.

He regarded the bundle of fur with a blank look. Yellow eyes stared back at him, almost demanding to be stroked. Its tail swished back and forth, tapping his thigh as if to say, "Get to it." He decided to humor the creature, shifting his attention back to Ancient Runes as he absentmindedly scratched its chin.

_The number seven has long been shrouded in mystery. In 1231, Bridget Wenlock's groundbreaking theorem paved the way for modern Arithmancy. Although some light has been shed on long-held beliefs since then, much is still not known. The Unknown is used to symbolize this mysterious number. As you can see on the next page, the rune looks somewhat like a–_

"Get off!" he hissed, swatting the feline off of his battered copy of _Spellman's Syllabary. _The monstrosity hissed back, raking its unnaturally sharp claws across his exposed forearm. Transfixed, Tom gazed down at the beads of blood forming on the fresh scratches, evidence of his own human vulnerability. One Horcrux was a far cry from six. He had a lot of work to do.

Calmly, he drew the yew wand from his pocket, and gave it a little flick. The green satin ribbon, so lovingly tied around its neck, began to uncoil and wind itself into a tighter knot.

There was a fitting saying for the sprawling mess in front of him. As a young boy, he had preferred solitude over playtime with the other children, gated in by the dreary brick walls that surrounded the orphanage. Muggle children were nothing more than snot-faced monsters.

"It's like herding cats!" Mrs. Cole would sometimes huff, rushing off with a frazzled look on her face.

* * *

Sunlight filtered through the very dusty windows of Greenhouse Three. The warm, humid air inside took them by surprise as they entered.

"You'd think that someone would have the sense to heat the entire castle," Claire muttered, pulling her scarf off. "The flowers can't freeze, but never mind the students!"

"Maybe it's a ploy to get students to study?" David suggested.

"Doesn't look like it's working." They were alone, save for the many species of plants cultivated in the Flora Faction.

The two of them went about their usual routine; she prepared their work station, and he set out the lunches he'd snagged from the kitchens. He was a natural for the subject, so the hands-on material was good practice for her. She made sure her dragon-hide gloves were secure before she went near the Fanged Geraniums.

She peered over the flower pots, frowning at the pink bulbs. They looked like an odd cross between a vampire and a tulip, and swayed back and forth, preparing for the next insect that flew by.

"Careful," he warned. "I saw one bite a girl on the face last year."

"I'm not _that_ close to it."

"Maybe not, but one day your face is going to freeze like that." She had a bad habit of frowning when she was deep in thought. Crouching, she handed him a brown bread sandwich, eying the creepy flowers just a few steps away from her. He was already seated cross-legged on the earthy ground.

She sat next to him with a heavy sigh. "Let's get to work then."

The hour before class dwindled away in silence, aside from the thuds of their hand shovels in the moist soil. Carnivorous plants known to magical folk required careful maneuvering. They were different from, say, Venus flytraps. She'd chuckled over what Muggle botanists called "strangler figs," or banyan trees. Strangler Figs really _did_ strangle unfortunate passersby; thick vines crushed their bones, making their bodies tender enough to devour whole.

Her movements slowed as she thought of the night before. Regret, cold as ice, seeped into her veins. What had possessed her to cast the Cruciatus Curse? It was like some twisted part of her had spurred her on, against her better judgment.

"Claire...? Are you all right?"

Caught off guard, she looked up at the concerned tone of his voice. It pained her to keep some things from him, but it was far better than the alternative. Half-truths were preferable to lies. He knew her better than anyone, so she couldn't flat out lie to him, even if she wanted to.

Biting her lip, she shook her head. _Dammit, don't cry! Stop being so pathetic!_

No, she wasn't all right. It had all built up around her, close to her breaking point.

"Come here," David said softly, pulling her into a tight hug.

Maybe she could blame her breakdown on the pressures of her father's new position and the upcoming O.W.L.'s, but that didn't matter now. She gave in to his familiar warmth and steady heartbeat.

* * *

Herbert Beery was an excitable little man, true to his name. There was a rumor that he clinked glasses with the Venomous Tentactula in the wee hours of the night, but then again, there were also whispers that he started that one. Nobody was terribly surprised by his announcement; their professor certainly had a flair for the dramatic.

"Gather 'round, everyone!" he called, springy hair bouncing around as he stood on his tiptoes. "I have some exciting news! I know you have all been working very hard for O.W.L.'s, so now it's time for a well-deserved break."

Ripples of excitement stirred through the couple dozen or so Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Claire took a seat between her friends, one of whom had been the silent comfort she needed. Gratitude rushed through her; he knew better than to badger her with questions.

"We're going to make a little history together. To celebrate the end of Yuletide, I've decided to put on Hogwarts's first school play!"

Laura's hand shot up. "Yes, Miss Beery?"

"But Professor, Yuletide ends in two days."

"It does, my dear, but we can do it! Many sixth and seventh years have already agreed to pitch in, for extra credit of course."

That caught the Rvenclaws' attention. Ultimately, O.W.L.'s and N.E.W.T.'s mattered much more than class grades, which Claire kept in mind during her private studies, but a little academic competition never killed anyone.

"Unfortunately for you, I already have volunteers for the main parts, but I need people to set the stage. Professor Dippet was kind enough to let us use the Great Hall for the performance." He eyed the trio in front of him, whisking a long piece of parchment from thin air. "Surely you all know of _The Fountain of Fair Fortune?"_

* * *

"Laura's uncle is off his rocker. Their whole family is," David grumbled, arranging white flowered vines over the stone wall Claire had erected in classroom eleven. The empty room had been nearly as cramped as a broom closet before Professor Dumbledore expanded it, leaving many of the others' mouths agape. They couldn't set up in the Great Hall too early and ruin the surprise, now, could they?

She stepped back, admiring her friend's spellwork. "It's lovely."

Muggles associated certain species of Datura with witchcraft. Among them was Devil's Trumpet, a potent toxin even in minute quantities. Claire liked to think magic wasn't inherently good or evil; the flowers were used in many healing potions, after all. In the end, it was a person's choices that should really matter.

She quivered at the thought. But what if last night had been a corruption of her values? In her arrogance, had she cast aside the advice of so many older and wiser than her? Even if her intentions weren't evil, there was a more nefarious side to the Dark Arts. Some even said it had a mind of its own. _Don't play with fire and expect not to get burned._

"I think I need some sleep," he yawned, rising to his feet. "Are you heading up?"

"Maybe in a little while."

Pausing, he took her hand and gently squeezed it. "I'm not going to pry, Claire, but you know I'm always here for you, right?"

"I know," she told him, managing to smile. "Goodnight."

"G'night."

Brimming with impatience, she waited for his footsteps to be swallowed up by the dark corridors. She had no intention of going to the West Wing tonight. Not anytime soon, anyway.

"You can come out now!" she snarled, glaring at a far corner of the room.

Maybe the son of a bitch wanted her to stew. He didn't appear right away.

"Very good," Tom praised, without a trace of irony. "Although your Occlumency needs more than a little work."

"I haven't had much occasion to practice..." she admitted, avoiding his intense gaze. "Why have you been following me?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** With this update, I've finished editing the older chapters.

* * *

"_Gets rid of bad ones, short and tall, tightens when used, one size fits all."_

Claire arched an eyebrow at the eagle knocker. "A noose?" she wondered aloud. "I suppose you could hang giants, or someone really small. But how is that 'one size fits all?' Unless you use a charm to—"

"Well done. Don't read too much into it, dear."

_That was sufficiently morbid, _she thought, pushing the door open. Inanimate objects at Hogwarts weren't always so...lifeless. _I don't think it's liked you since first year. You always have to argue with it_.

But lucky her. She had quite another Riddle to deal with.

No one was in the Ravenclaw common room as she made her way over to the girls' dormitories. With several months to go until June, three o'clock in the morning was still an ungodly hour to fifth and seventh years.

Light snores drifted from Laura's four-poster bed. That was only because Claire was close enough to stare right down at her sleeping form, as she had cast Silencing Charms on the girl's bed drapes at the beginning of term. Gently, Claire shook her awake.

"What?" Laura groaned, pulling the blue quilt over her head.

"I need your help with something." On second thought, she added, "Please, you owe me."

Laura clambered out of bed, blindly reaching for her boots and winter cloak, undoubtedly remembering their excursions on the school grounds years back. "Are you going to tell me where we're going this time?"

"Remember what I said about leaving your wand within an arm's reach? Anyone with half a brain could enter Ravenclaw tower."

"Fine, don't answer," Laura mumbled, clearly still half-asleep. "Not everyone's as paranoid as you, you know."

Claire frowned at her housemate. _Sometimes you really can be witless beyond measure._

"Ready? I'm going to Disillusion us both. The last thing we need is Pringle on our tail."

The grungy old caretaker was awfully fond of his cane.

* * *

Wind rustled through the dark mass of trees before them, the cold air assaulting their senses as they followed a flickering light, stark against the Forbidden Forest. Claire glanced up at the inky black sky, blinking as snowflakes dusted her eyelashes. Their footprints would soon be reclaimed by the snow.

Only when they approached the light could they see it didn't come from the Gamekeeper's hut itself. Ogg was a friendly enough man, if a little reserved. Rumor had it that he was a self-loathing Squib. He usually kept to himself, going about the many tasks expected of him, as well as others that weren't exactly in his job description.

"In here," Claire whispered, pointing to a rickety shed jutting out of the hut. Usually it was locked. Strangely enough, the door was open.

"Why're we—?"

Tom Riddle greeted them with a smile. "You can remove the spell now, Miss Lawrence. It will be much easier to talk that way."

"Can someone explain to me why we're here?" Laura asked, once the last of her figure trickled into view. "I thought you didn't even like—"

_Shut. Up._

"Mr. Riddle, would you be kind enough to explain?" Claire interrupted, playing up her own smile.

"Of course," he said, gesturing to the sizable glass tank behind him. "We're only here for service to the school."

Inside the tank were serpentine creatures known as Ashwinders, which arose from magical fires allowed to burn unfettered. On their own, they weren't nearly as harmful as their origins. Their eggs, however, posed risk to incompetent wizards. Unless they were frozen immediately, they gave off intense heat.

"It is my understanding, Miss Beery, that you've spoken to Professor Kettleburn about a new breed of Ashwinder he developed with the assistance of the Gamekeeper. You can understand my concern, can't you? Professor Kettleburn has a long history of questionable professional conduct. As Prefects, it is our duty to ensure the safety of our fellow students."

In _The Fountain of Fair Fortune, _Sir Luckless and three other "unfortunates" encountered a giant beast, "bloated and blind," in search of the fountain. An Engorgement Charm would bring the old tale to life, but if an Ashwinder laid its eggs at such a scale, the results could be...catastrophic.

"He said he developed a spell to keep them from laying eggs. _Finite Incantatem _should get them back to normal," Laura said, peering into the tank. "It's quite safe. He showed me this afternoon—"

"Thank you, Miss Beery. That will be all for tonight," Tom cut her off with a smirk. She just stood there, dumbstruck. It wasn't every day that the ever-so-polite Tom Riddle raised a wand at you without so much as a warning.

_"Obliviate!"_

Laura stumbled backwards, a vacant look on her ashen face. She collapsed with a heavy thud, headfirst onto the grimy floor.

"Was that really necessary?" Claire asked, frowning at him. What a silly question. It was like asking why he hadn't gone to Professor Kettleburn instead. By targeting her friend, there was less risk involved, and the added benefit of tormenting her.

"We cannot let that fool's sad excuse for a play go on without incident."

"May I ask _why?_"

"Why do you think he chose _now_, of all times, to put on this particular play?" he demanded, polishing his shoe on the unconscious girl's robes.

"It's a political statement," she replied, hesitant to voice her suspicions. The truth was staring right back at her. "And you plan on making one of your own..._"_

The hypocrisy of it all! Riddle wasn't a Pure-blood surname. If she was right about everything, that would mean—

"I know a part of you sympathizes with Gellert Grindelwald. I've seen your innermost thoughts, Miss Lawrence. Don't act like I haven't."

* * *

"Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a fountain that flowed in an enchanted garden. But this was no ordinary fountain, because anyone who bathed in it would have Fair Fortune for all time... Under the covers, dear."

Claire, quite young at the time, did as she was told. After she was properly tucked in, she looked at her grandmother expectantly to continue. Like so many children before her, Beetle the Bard's tales had stirred a deep curiosity for the world around her, but it was those stories that had helped guide her onto the crooked path.


End file.
